


Six More Weeks and I'll Be Back

by asdf123150 (jadeopal)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Disgustingly Cute Petnames, Fluff, Homophobia, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Misogyny, Songfic, Texas stereotypes, The Princess Bride References, temporarily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 02:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7826617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeopal/pseuds/asdf123150
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spending six weeks in Conservatism and Homophobia, Texas, on a business trip is not the greatest experience when you're a gay married man. Fortunately for Arthur, he has his wonderful husband to look forward to at the end of it.</p><p>Inspired by Taylor Swift's song, "Ours".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six More Weeks and I'll Be Back

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god, this is the most I've written in months and months. Thank you, young Taylor Swift and A/E. Thank you.
> 
> Anyway, as the summary mentions, this was inspired by Taylor Swift's song, "Ours," because come on. Homophobia and Eames's tattoos (which, admittedly, didn't end up in the fic, but still). The song was practically made for this pairing. Arthur works as some HR person who goes around to different offices to search for harassment, prejudices in the workplace, mistreatment of employees, etc. I don't actually know how HR works, and I doubt this position exists in real life, so prepare for lots of making things up. The joys of being a writer! As for Eames's job, well, I have no idea. Use your imagination. Also: what does the company that Arthur works for do? Again: imagination.
> 
> To any readers living in Texas: I'm sure your state isn't nearly as terrible a place as I've made it out to be. I'm playing strongly off stereotypes, so I apologize if it offends. These stereotypes would probably fit for any small, rural town, but Texas is more known for this type of behavior, so...

Arthur arrived at the office at 8:00 am sharp, dressed in a neatly-pressed three-piece suit, briefcase and coffee firmly in hand, despite feeling like death itself warmed over.

He tried his best not to drum his fingers against the counter as the receptionist searched for his name on the employee registry. Eames always teased him about that habit. _Look at you, Arthur, always so high-strung, can’t stay still for a moment._

“Arthur Cohen, you said?” The receptionist frowned and squinted at her computer monitor. She was a middle-aged woman, gray beginning to show at her roots, mouth framed by heavy laugh-lines and lips painted scarlet red.

Arthur cleared his throat. The sound echoed, vast and unending, in the empty lobby.

“Arthur Cohen-Eames.”

“Hmm.” A few minutes, lots of clicking, and another squint later, she made a vague noise of triumph and handed him his ID card. “Cohen-Eames. Your parents?”

He frowned down at the lanyard — so clunky and vibrantly blue; Eames would surely appreciate it, which really said something about its appearance — and absently answered, “My husband, actually.”

There was a long pause. Arthur looked up to see that the receptionist’s squint had transformed into a narrower, suspicious glare.

“I’m sorry?”

Arthur’s stomach sank. He’d thought Dom had been exaggerating when warning him about the prejudices at this Texas branch, but apparently not. “Cohen-Eames. The Eames comes from my husband.”

The squint grew even squintier. “I _see_. Well, you’ve been assigned an office on the fourth floor for your stay here.”

“Thank you.” He gave her a friendly, oh-god-please-don’t-hate-me-for-being-gay wave as he headed for the elevator. She just kept on glaring.

He rode up to the fourth floor in silence, alone in the elevator. As he waited for the tell-tale _ding_ of arrival, he sipped his coffee and sighed.

This was going to be a long six weeks.

-

_Darling! How has your day been?_

_Tiring, as usual. The receptionist glared at me when I mentioned my husband._

_Oh, darling, already gossiping about me, and only on your first day? I know you want to brag, but please, have some restraint._

_Psh. Brag about, what, your paisley shirts? There’s a word for that, Eames, and it’s not “bragging”._

_Shh, no need to get into the specifics. Oh, bugger — I spilled my coffee all over myself. I really don’t know how you drink the stuff, it’s bitter as all fuck._

_That’s what sugar and milk are for. How have you been?_

_Oh, the usual. Pining over you. Pining over being away from you for an hour. Pining over being away from you for a day. Bemoaning my horrible, you-less life in general. Cursing Cobb for taking you away—_

_Eames, be serious._

_Arthur, I am being nothing but serious. Cobb did mention, though. Texas, it’s, well..._

_It’s only six weeks._

_Are you sure? You know Ariadne wouldn’t mind—_

_I’ll manage. I’ve been doing this job for years, I can handle it._

_Arthur. Arthur, Arthur. Darling, sweetcheeks, honeybun—_

_Oh, god._

_—muse, teddy bear my little coochie-face—_

_Oh,_ god.

_Seriously, though. Take care of yourself. Burnout happens, you know? Especially when you’re surrounded by — from the way Cobb tells it — misogynistic, homophobic hellspawn from the 1800s._

_That’s a charming description._

_You know how Cobb is._

_I do. I wish you were here._

_Me too, darling. Me too._

-

Word spread fast. By the next morning, Arthur was being greeted by glares on his every side.

To make matters worse, all the workers had apparently decided to come to work early that day, so when Arthur got into the elevator, it was packed.

“Sorry,” he apologized as he accidentally scuffed the shoe of the person beside him. Rather than respond, the woman simply glared at him, then deliberately elbowed him in the side.

Arthur sucked in a breath. Hell if he’d let them see his reaction.

When the elevator got to the fourth floor, everyone on the elevator burst out, tossing Arthur to and fro as he tried to hold his ground in the midst of the chaos. He bit his lip to hold in a gasp as someone kneed him in the back.

 _Six weeks_ , he reminded himself grimly as the elevator cleared. _Six weeks, and then it’s over._

-

_Good evening, Mr. Eames._

_Oh, no._

_Eames. I meant Eames._

_Oh, darling._

_I’m sorry. Today’s been... Stressful._

_Yes, I daresay I gathered. Do you— I wish I could be there._

_No, it’s fine. Only six weeks._

_Arthur... Well. Did you know we’re running out of toilet paper?_

_Are we, know?_

_We are. And I could’ve sworn we’d stocked up just last week._

_You say that like we’re preparing for the apocalypse._

_I’ll have you know toilet paper would be an absolute necessity in the case of apocalypse. Why, I was reading online just the other day—_

_-_

Arthur was sitting down for lunch with the branch HR manager. They were supposed to have a discussion about the state of HR at this branch.

Halfway through a description of recently-filed sexual harassment complaints, the manager — a rather corpulent, ruddy-cheeked fellow going by Mr. Brown — broke off to laugh, “Not that any of it matters, of course.”

Arthur immediately bristled. “I’m sorry, what is that supposed to mean?”

The man stared at him and opened and closed his mouth like a gawping fish. If Eames were there, he’d be laughing his arse off.

“Mr. Brown,” Arthur said, crisp and clean as the lettuce garnishing their plates. “I asked you a question.”

“Well.” The man swallowed and set down his fork and knife. At this point, Arthur knew that Eames would be in convulsions. “It’s just... The women in the complaints...”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“They... They’re not exactly...”

It was sad, really, Arthur thought to himself as he scribbled in his notebook, watching with sick amusement as Mr. Brown’s face reddened further and further which every sentence he wrote. He had no idea whether the man was a misogynist, or a homophobe, or both. In any case, this branch was clearly in need of a new HR manager. Whether a better one could even be found in this hellhole of a city, though, remained to be discovered.

-

_Oh, oh, oh — you’re a hoot, darling, really, you are. What did he say next?_

_God, I don’t even remember. More bullshit. I think he mentioned something about men having “needs”—_

_You’re having a laugh._

_Regrettably not. And that the women had been “tempting” them—_

_Oh, oh, lord._

_I know. And then—_

-

A week in, all the glares, spilled coffee cups, snide over-the-shoulder remarks, cramped elevator rides, elbows in the ribs, stolen lunches, tardiness to meetings, scuffed shoes, avoidance in washrooms, messed-up photocopies, out-of-order files,... Well, the point was, it was all starting to get to him. And Eames loved him, loved him enough to call him for an hour each night and bid him a _love you, darling, kisses and sweet dreams_ before hanging up, but he had a job, a _life_ , back in New York, and couldn’t exactly be at Arthur’s every beck and call.

So, against his every instinct, on day 7 — after spending his Sunday off reading paperwork and Skyping with Eames practically nonstop — Arthur brought a framed photo of Eames in to work. So that, the next time an intern forgot to bring him the files he’d requested, he could at least be comforted by the image of Eames’s crooked smile.

Five minutes after he set it up, small and modest, next to his stone-age telephone, someone stopped by to comment on it.

“Oh, how nice,” one of the younger workers commented as she passed by. “Awfully... maternal of you. Your brother?”

There was a crispness to her voice that told him it all: _say it. Just say it already. Confirm what everyone here already knows._

Arthur gritted his teeth. “Husband. Actually.”

“Oh.” She pursed her lips and looked pointedly down at his hands. “I don’t see a ring.”

He kept his bland smile pasted on his face. “We only wear them on special occasions.”

“You only—” From the shock on her face, he’d’ve thought she’d just learnt that kittens were the spawn of the devil, sent to earth to sway all of humankind toward sin. “But— But then how are people supposed to—”

“To?”

“To— To know—”

She sputtered a while longer and left.

It took less than an hour for the new rumours to circulate. Not only was Arthur Cohen-Eames, the HR investigator sent from main offices, _gay_ ; not only was he married to another man and presumably doing it with him; not only was he engaging in the cardinal sin of sodomy and, gasp, homosexuality; but he was _married_ and _not wearing a ring_ . Wonder of wonders, sin of sins! It was almost as if he had no respect for the holy institution of marriage! No wonder he was gay, marriage didn’t mean anything to him. How dare he disrespect proper heterosexual marriages this way, did he think this was all a _joke_ , blah blah, yammer yammer—

By the end of the day, all the little things — the snide remarks, spilled coffees, hellish elevator rides — had only gotten worse.

If Arthur asked Eames to come visit, he thought bitterly to himself as he reviewed the branch’s hiring practices for the past three months, and kissed him in the lobby, in full view of all the employees, would it get bad enough that he could officially file a harassment complaint?

Maybe he’d bring in another photo. One of their wedding. Preferably the one that showed the two of them kissing at the altar. That ought to do it.

-

_My darling, vicious, passive-aggressive Arthur. I knew there was a reason I fell in love with you all that time ago._

_It’s not being passive-aggressive, it’s— Anyway. Do you think I could get the whole branch shut down based on intense cultural homophobia and conservative views?_

_Mm.... Sorry, I know Cobb’s fond of you, but I don’t think he’s_ that _fond._

_Maybe if I got enough of the other employees to support me—_

_Oh, are you starting a petition? You should totally start a petition!_

_....Eames._

Ar _thur._

-

“Is this your partner?”

Arthur stopped in front of his cubicle. (It was a nice cubicle. Nice and spacious, in the corner, with a good view. Not the office he’d been promised, but still fairly nice.) There, lounging in his chair, sat a slender woman with dark-painted lips pursed in a disapproving frown. The photo of Eames smiling dangled from her long-and-sparkly-nailed fingers.

“Husband, actually.” Arthur fought the urge to seize the photo out of her hands. It would be rude, he told himself. “And you are?”

She set the photo down and turned her disapproving frown onto him. “Uh-huh, _husband._ I bet. Eames, is it? We went to school together, back in the day.”

Don’t say anything she could file a complaint against you for, he told himself. “Did you now? Perhaps he’s mentioned you, what did you say your name was?”

Again, he was ignored. “Yeah. We hooked up once or twice. He never told me he was a faggot, though.”

All right. He’d been polite long enough. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Yeah,” she continued, spinning side to side in the chair. “What’re they calling it these days? ‘Bisexual’? Tell me, does he tell you when he goes to pick up girls for some fun?”

He took a step forward and held out his hand. She stood up, towering several inches higher than him in her stiletto heels. “Your ID card, please.”

Something in his voice, or perhaps his eyes, must’ve convinced her, because instead of continuing she merely huffed and slapped it into her hand. “I’m quitting next week, not much you can do about it,” she quipped as he jotted her name down: _Candice Johnson._ “So good luck filing a harassment complaint or whatever against me for hurting your delicate, faggoty feelings.”

He gave her a tense smile and handed her ID card back. “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Johnson. I think you should get back to work now.”

She rolled her eyes and flounced by, whispering a final “ _gay piece of shit_ ” in his ear as she left.

Arthur closed his eyes and counted to ten. Back down to one. Reminded himself of how _disappointed_ Cobb would be if Arthur got reported for assault.

Right. That was that, then. Time to get back to work.

-

_All right. First of all, Arthur, you need to know that I have never known a Candice before in my life._

_Okay._

_I mean, Candice, seriously, what kind of bloody name is that? Anyway, second, she’s just jealous._

_Okay._

_Really, she is. She’s jealous of you for catching yourself as stunning a man as me. I mean, look at me — look at my — Do you have a photo of me nearby? Right, take that out, would you, there’s a love. Now, look at me. Are you looking at me?_

_Hmm._

_Right. I’m a fine specimen of man if I do say so myself, of course she’s jealous of you for being married to someone as great as me. She was probably just trying to psyche you so she could snatch me up for herself._

_Uh-huh._

_Hush, darling, none of your condescension now. She was probably jealous of you, too. I mean, you’re handsome, you’re smart, you have an impeccable sense of fashion—_

_I’m never going to let you forget you said that, you know._

_Come on, can’t that be off the record? Just this once? — Right. As I was saying, impeccable fashion sense,_ lovely _arse, six-digit salary... What’s not to be jealous of?_

_Righhhht._

_And finally. Darling. Sweetums. I love you. Love you more than I can even say. I would quote Shakespeare here but you wouldn’t even know which of his works I’m referencing, so I won’t bother. But the point is, I love you to the ends of the earth, and nothing anything of those arses say will change any of that._

_I love you, too._

_I love you more. Only three more weeks, yeah?_

_I miss you._

_You’ll be home soon, darling._

-

That Sunday, Arthur was eating pizza for lunch and brushing up on his Shakespeare when the doorbell rang.

Outside his rented apartment were two older men with pamphlets in their hands.

“Hello, sir,” one of the men told him with a dazzling smile. “We’re from Jehovah’s Witnesses—”

Arthur shut the door on them.

Later that evening, when Arthur told him what had happened, Eames laughed for a minute straight.

-

“Heeeey, Arthur.”

Arthur looked up from his work to see a busty blonde woman leaning on the wall of his cubicle. The top three buttons of her blouse were unbuttoned, and she was giving him a sultry smile that he recognized all too well from his college years.

“It is Arthur, right?” she drawled, plump and luscious lips curling into a smile as she gave him an appraising look.

Her lips weren’t as nice as Eames’s.

“It’s Mr. Cohen-Eames, actually,” he replied, brisk as ever. Couldn’t these people ever just leave him to do his work in peace? “And you are?”

“Call me Emily. Well, Arthur—”

“Mr. Cohen-Eames. Your last name?”

“Just Emily works. Mr. Cohen—”

“Mr. Cohen-Eames.”

Her pretty mouth was now twisted into something close to a snarl. “Fine, Mr. _Cohen-Eames._ Me and the girls—”

“The girls and I.”

That was definitely a snarl now. “ _The girls and I_ were going to go out for some drinks this evening at a local bar, and we were wondering if you’d like to join us. It’ll be fun.”

“Well, Miss, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to come. I have previous arrangements.”

“Oh?” She hoisted herself higher up, causing her bosom to be pushed up to the point of straining her buttons. “What sort of arrangements?”

“Dinner, some exercise, some work, then a call to my husband.”

She gave him a coy look through her eyelashes. “Well, you can go one day without talking to him, can’t you? Me and— The girls and I are a great deal of fun.”

“I’m busy,” he repeated, and flipped the page.

“If you do decide to come, it’s not like he’ll ever have to know—”

Arthur sighed and finally looked up at her, directly meeting her gaze for the first time. “Miss Emily. I don’t know what ideas you have, but I’m married. Even if I did agree to come out with you tonight, it would be for a few friendly drinks, nothing more.”

She smirked. “I know you have needs.” Arthur almost groaned at hearing that. “All men do. And everyone knows that marriage between two men doesn’t really count.”

“Fine, then. I’m not attracted to women.”

Her face twisted into a sneer. “Too good for us? I don’t know what your parents were like, but I was raised properly. Men and women weren’t made to—”

“Miss Emily, you are coming dangerously close to homophobic language. If you continue with that train of thought, I’m afraid I’ll have to file a complaint against you for homophobic harassment and creating an unsafe work environment.”

That gave her pause. Arthur looked down and half-heartedly skimmed his report as he waited for her response.

“...Fine, then. It really is too bad you can’t come out tonight,” she all but spat out as she moved away from his cubicle.

Once she was safely out of earshot, Arthur sighed. One more week, and then he could put this whole mess behind him.

-

 _Darling, I’m afraid I must make a confession to you. I’ve finished all your coffee shite. I know, it’s terrible of me, I don’t even_ like _the stuff—_

_I must say, that takes real dedication, Mr. Eames. Finishing an entire jar of coffee grounds yourself, in just five weeks?_

_And a half._

_And a half. For someone who dislikes coffee as much as you do, that’s a real accomplishment._

_What can I say, darling? I’ve missed you._

_Enough to drink away a whole jar of my coffee?_

_...There may have been an incident this morning._

_I see. Go on._

_Involving... aliens landing on our roof. They were going to capture me, y’see, unless I offered them some piece of human culture, or civilization, or whatever you want to call it — and of course I wasn’t about to offer them any of my art—_

_Of course not. My coffee grounds, on the other hand, were of so little value to you that you offered them up straight away._

_Weeeell. Not straight away. I did do the usual routine of, you know, begging for mercy, asking what they wanted, telling them about the wonderful man, the love of my life, waiting somewhere for me to return to him, but the Dread Alien Robert simply wouldn’t listen—_

_The Dread Alien— Eames, you are ridiculous, do you know that?_

_Hush, I’m not finished my story. It was going to execute me, do you know, and I had to beg him to spare my life—_

_Hold on, is the alien a ‘him’ or an ‘it’?_

_You’re right, darling, my mistake. I had to beg_ it _to spare my life, and when it asked—really, darling, there’s nothing funny about this at all, it was a terrifying experience—when it asked what there was to live for, of course I told him—_

_-_

It was Arthur’s last ride in the godforsaken Texan elevator. At least this time he was one of the only people in it. The other occupant was a fairly young man, a custodian actually, holding a mop trolley beside him.

Arthur was just running through his mental list of everything he needed to pack up, making sure he hadn’t left anything behind—if he had to come back to this building one more time than was necessary, he may very well cry—when he heard someone say, “Good on you.”

He blinked and looked over to the young man, who was staring back at him. “Pardon?”

The man smiled. “I’m gay, too. None of them know, of course—I’ve seen the way they treat LGBTQs here. But I just wanted to say: the way you handled them? Good on you.”

For a moment, Arthur was taken aback. Then he returned the man’s smile.

-

_Cobb’s having a dinner party in a few weeks, he’s invited us over. It should be the Friday after you return, I think._

_Mmm._

_Arthur? Arthur, darling, are you falling asleep?_

_‘M nn tired._

_Right, and I’m a moose. I’d make a rather handsome moose, I think, but— Anyway. Would you look at that, I think I’m a bit knackered too. Time for us to say good night._

_Nooooo. Eamessssss._

_Good night, darling. You’ll need some proper rest if you want to get to work on time tomorrow._

_Miss you. What’re you talking about, I’m always on time._

_Actually, there was that time when Ariadne— I see what you’re doing, you rascal, but it won’t work. I’m tired too, Arthur, and as much as I love talking to you, we really must sleep._

_All right. Love you._

_Love you. Hugs and kisses and warm bunny cuddles._

_Mm. Sweet dreams._

_Sweet dreams._

_Big spoon._

_Stop it, we really do need to sleep. Good night._

_Good night._

-

Arthur was jittery the whole plane trip home. When one of the flight attendants asked him if he’d like a drink, perhaps a face mask to take a nap, he snapped at her so hard that he immediately felt bad about it, apologizing for his behaviour and, yes, a glass of water would be perfect, thank you.

The flight passed in a blur. Glasses of water, some distasteful movies with lots of explosions, complementary peanuts; it all passed in a haze of, _four more hours. Three more hours. Two. One._

And then he was there.

Seatbelts; landing; deboarding; baggage claim; security; check, check, over, done. Before he even knew it, Arthur found himself entering the passenger pickup area, jitters all but gone, as he looked around for familiar broad shoulders and glimmering green eyes.

“Darling?”

He turned, and there, leaning calm as you please against a pillar. _Eames._

The world narrowed down to just the two of them and the space between them, at first fifteen paces long, then fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eight—

And all the while Eames’s voice saying, “You have no idea how much I’ve missed those eyebags of yours, darling, no one else’s can ever quite compared. I shudder to think what Texas has done to you—”

Then Arthur was breathing “ _Eames”_ and falling into the warm embrace of Eames’s arms, right where he belonged.


End file.
